Matters of the Heart
by Ishafel
Summary: Based on the events of Bowling for Eric, not Regarding Eric, even tho I like that title better.
1. Promise Me This

**__**

MATTERS OF THE HEART

The characters? Property of the WB. The story? Copyrighted by Ishafel 10/12/2002.

Rated R for adult themes

His father, dead. 

His father's valiant, overworked heart, bigger than any man's should be. His father dead on the table. Simon alone stood dry-eyed at the funeral, unable to cry. His father, as he had looked going in, paler than ever, tiredness like a bruise on his face and lips blue. When was that, even? It felt like a lifetime ago. Three days, maybe; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. In three days Eric had become this dried up, shriveled thing. Impossible that he had ever been alive, impossible certainly that he was dead. 

"I'm so sorry about your father," the fat black woman in the flowered dress was saying politely. "Were you with him when he passed?"

"No," Simon said flatly, and turned away. Behind him his mother gasped, clasped the woman's hand. No lie too great, if it kept the parish council happy. "Of course Simon was with his father. All of our children were there. He's just so upset, he doesn't know what he's saying." And hissed, to Simon, "You'd better show your father's memory some respect, mister. Bad enough" and her voice trailed off into a sniffle. Simon wondered how she had been going to finish. "Bad enough, you killed him, with your harsh, careless words. No need to spit on his grave?" Annie had said not one word of reproach to him in three days, but there was nothing she could have said anyway that was worse than what he had thought of himself. It would be a relief to have her yell, now.

Simon hadn't been there, while his father struggled for breath on the table. He hadn't heard the alarms going off, the surgeon's directions to the nurse. He hadn't seen them frantically attempt to find a shockable rhythm. He hadn't heard them call it. "Time of death," what had it been, nearly lunch time? "Time of death 11:57." But none of his siblings had been there either. Annie hadn't been there. There was no reason for them to be in the operating theater. They had all been there, all but Simon, when the doctor (not Hank or Doc thank God, but a man in his forties they'd never met, patient and kind but hardly devastated) came out to the lounge, to tell them that Eric was dead. Well, Matt hadn't been there, but that was hardly his fault; he'd had a big exam, impossible to reschedule, and Eric had said, tell him no, no need for him to come, routine procedure, they do them all the time, safe, great doctor. Mary had had to work. His dad was so proud of her. And Matt's wife Sarah had been there. And Robbie and Kevin. But his mother had needed him, her oldest son present, and he hadn't been there. Where had he been? As if he could forget.

He'd been one floor down, by the vending machine, holding a bag of Fritos and a Coke so cold it burned his hand. He'd been talking to a pretty girl. As he'd turned to go, clutching her phone number written in eyeliner on a napkin, she'd said, "I hope everything turns out well, with your dad, I mean." And he'd said, "Yeah." Not even, yeah, as in yeah, me too. Just yeah, as in yeah, I'm sure you do. And he'd tripped awayupstairs, singing to himself as he waited for the elevator, thinking about Ashley. Of course he could never call Ashley now, even if he hadn't lost her number. He wondered what she must be thinking. Was she waiting by the phone? Probably not, not a girl that pretty.

He'd come off the elevator, feeling good for the first time since his fight with his father the Friday before. Robbie'd been waiting for him, his face grim. "Jesus, Simon, where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you." And Simon had blinked back at him, mouth gaping like a fish's. Amazing, how even then he'd not imagined his dad could die.

Much the worst, however, what he'd said to his father. All the rest could be forgiven; someday he might even forgive himself for it. But he would never forgive himself those hasty words, that he'd once meant so much: that he hated Eric, that he wished him gone, or never-been. (Not dead, a small part of his mind screamed, surely he had never wanted his father dead.) Other kids wished to be orphans, and had their wish denied, end of story. Why had his, this wish, come true? 

"C'mon," Robbie said, "Time to go." He'd been crying, Simon could tell, though it didn't show much. They'd all been crying, all but him. Even Kevin, who'd barely known their father.

"Where?" he managed to ask. But perhaps he hadn't asked; Robbie didn't answer, and even he was not sure he'd heard the words. Instead Robbie was pulling him toward the rented car, his grip on Simon's arm almost enough to bruise. Simon wished it were; he wanted bruises, scars, bleeding cuts and oozing boils. He wanted to hurt visibly, so that everyone would know he was sorry. He hadn't told any of them what he'd said to his father on Friday night, but somehow, he was sure they knew. He hadn't had a chance to say he was sorry Monday morning, hadn't been able to find the words for a public apology. His father had died thinking that Simon hated him.

One moment he was stumbling toward the car, Robbie half supporting him, and the next he was standing by the grave, and someone, Annie? Lucy? had pressed a white flower into his right hand. He had no recollection of the drive, and though the minister was speaking, he could not hear the words. There must be something wrong with him. He turned to Robbie to ask him something, anything, but Robbie was holding Sam, his eyes a thousand miles away. Ruthie, on his left, took his hand and held it so tightly it hurt. Behind him he heard Matt choke back a sob. Funny how, with all his family around him, most of them close enough to touch, he still felt more alone than ever before.

His father would have loved this, would have loved seeing all his friends and family together one last time. Sad, that such gatherings were so often restricted to weddings and funerals, or even just to funerals. Sad that he would never know how many of his parishioners were here, how many of those whose lives he'd touched remembered him so fondly. Sad that he'd never hear their kind words, see their tears. Sad that he'd never hear Simon say he was sorry. 

They were all looking at him now, as in a scene out of nightmare, and he realized they were waiting for Matt, behind him, to speak. Matt's voice broke as he said, "My father had a great heart. He could have been anything, anybody, and this is what he chose. He knew that being a minister meant having the power to change lives, and he accepted that. He knew that that was the greatest power he could have, and he was careful to use that power only to do right. He changed my life by being my father. He brought me up, brought us all up, to be different. He gave me the ability to stand up for what I believe, took away my excuses. I can never be one of the group, now, but I truly wouldn't have it any other way. He was my father and I loved him." 

Simon's flower dropped from fingers suddenly numb. He bent to pick it up, thinking, damn Matt anyway. His big brother always knew exactly the right thing to say. Matt would never do what Simon had, would never feel this guilt that made his stomach churn. There was no peace in the thought of going home, now or ever, not for him. He would do his duty now, as he had not done when his father was alive. Carefully he dropped the lily on his father's casket. If he had not made Eric happy in life, he must make him proud in death. He took Ruthie's hand again, offered Annie his elbow, and turned to go. He looked back once, as Annie climbed into the car. Eric's grave gaped like a rotten tooth. Simon mouthed to it, I love you, Dad, before he climbed into the car.


	2. Perfect

**_All characters, for what it's worth, are property of Brenda and the WB; this story itself was copyrighted by Ishafel on October 13, 2002.  _**

Perfect 

He did what he could.  What he could to make Eric proud, or what would have made him proud while he still lived.  He did his best to help his mother, though in truth Annie seemed to have a strength none of them had dreamed she possessed.  He did what he could to be a perfect son to the father he had betrayed, but he had a sinking feeling that nothing he did was enough—that it could never be enough.

Some of it was easy.  Simple enough to give up trying to be popular, because he had never been successful anyway.  Simple enough, to give up his friends; they didn't know what to say to him anymore and having him around made them uncomfortable.  Cecilia was harder:  she was persistent, so persistent.  She kept calling him, and he didn't know what to say to her.  He didn't want to hurt her (if in fact there was anything he could say to her that would hurt her, if she wasn't just playing some kind of game with him.)  But Cecilia gave up, eventually.

One by one he gave up the things that had once made him happy, and he found that it was almost too easy because they no longer brought him pleasure.  No more driving aimlessly around GlenOak, blinded by tears he was embarrassed to share.  No more movies, no more parties he had to beg to attend.  No more Saturdays at the mall.  No more begging his mother for the garage apartment; he had found he no longer liked to be alone.  In the end he gave up having his own room, asked Robbie to move in with him so Ruthie could have her space back.  

Some of it was harder.  Now when he had all the time in the world to study it was crushingly difficult to concentrate.  Once he had done his homework so quickly, and now he struggled.  But he was making straight A's, still, though it took him twice as long to the work.  Hard not to attract his teachers' notice; they kept asking him was anything wrong, did he want to talk, and he did not want them to ask his mother, did not want her worried.  It was worrying that had killed his father.

Hard to be polite to his father's former parishioners, the council by whose grace they were allowed to stay in the house.  Hard to smile when they poked and prodded at him, saying how proud his father would have been.  Hard to be civil, when they asked him in for coffee cake, and remarked on how thin he'd gotten, did his mother need more money, how was she managing, seven children, really, imagine having a family like that in today's world.  Hard to laugh when they called him an anachronism.

Harder still to be quiet and respectful at home, to be supportive of his elder siblings, obedient to their wishes, and kind to the younger children.  Hard to do his part to hold his family and world together, and still stay out of everyone's way.  He tried to do what he could but he was miserably aware that he was often more of a hindrance than help.  All of his much-vaunted intelligence seemed to have deserted him; the simplest things—laundry, loading the dishwasher, seemed to get away from him.

In the end he asked Annie if he could get another after school job, help to make ends meet if he could not help elsewhere.  And was crushingly ashamed when she told him that he was doing such a good job at home that she couldn't spare him.  Her eyes filled with tears at his offer, and she chokingly explained that school was his job, that there was no chance now of sending him to any college at all unless he could earn a scholarship, that his father would have wanted him to go, and he must have every possible chance.   He knew what she was really saying:  that he was worthless, cold and cruel, and she wanted him away and gone as soon as he could be sent.  And then of course he hated himself for thinking such a thing about his mother, who loved him even knowing what he was, and whom he had made cry.

Hardest of all, that final and intensely private task he had set himself—to learn to pray, to love God, to have faith.  Often he took the twins after school to the park, and let them play on the swingset while he sat on the bench, and read the books his father had loved so much:  St. Augustine, Thomas More, Julian of Norwich.  God help him, but none of them made any sense to him.  None of them moved him.  At night he read the Bible with a flashlight under the blankets so Robbie could sleep.  There was no peace for him in any of it.

He knew that to truly honor Eric's memory he must find a way to dedicate his life to God, but it was all proving unimaginably hard.  He was beginning to wonder if he was capable of that sincere, quiet belief that had been his father's hallmark.  Perhaps he had already crossed one to many lines to receive God's grace.  Perhaps his part in the divine plan was that of a failure.

Regardless, there was nothing more to be done tonight.  Wearily, Simon packed his schoolbooks back into his bag.  After ten, in a Friday night, and here he was half asleep at the kitchen table, no one but Happy for company.  When he leaned down to pat her, she thumped her tail and sighed in her sleep.  Once he would have been horrified to have nothing left to do but go up to bed and read until Robbie got back from his date and he could finally fall asleep.  Now he merely felt guilty he couldn't manage something more productive.

Happy's tail thumped his leg, and he blinked down at her, eyes filled with tears.  He hadn't been able to cry for his father, but he could still manage them for his dog.  He had offered to give Happy away; she was too expensive, really, to keep, and he had hardly earned such an indulgence.  But Annie had insisted that she was family, had said that she could never ask him to give her up.  And Simon hadn't insisted.  One more small guilt, among so many large ones.  

The screen door slammed and he looked up, startled.  Kevin, in uniform, back from his shift.  "Hey," Simon said softly, and Kevin gave him a preoccupied grunt.  He was thinking about Lucy, which meant at least, Simon wasn't in trouble.  It was a funny feeling, not to have done anything ostensibly wrong, but to always be waiting for a lecture that never came.  He swung his bag onto his shoulder, suddenly too tired to even climb the stairs to his room.  Maybe he could lie on the couch for a while.

As he turned to go, Kevin said, "Simon, wait."  Simon turned.  It was an effort not to groan, but he managed it.  He knew that Kevin meant well, that he was trying to play both brother and father as sensitively and considerately as possible.  "Sit down," Kevin continued.  "You want a sandwich or something?"  And when Simon shook his head, "You don't mind if I make one."

Simon put his head on his arms and watched as Kevin put together a mass of coldcuts and pickles, lettuce, and tomato on bread.  The mayonnaise smell was making him feel sick.  Finally Kevin turned and sat down across from him.  "How's it going, Simon?"

Simon looked down at the scarred wooden tabletop.  "Good," he said.  It beat what he wanted to say—which would sound more like, leave me the fuck alone, Kevin.  

"We haven't had a chance to talk lately," Kevin prodded.

"I know," Simon answered.  "But we've both been really busy, Kevin, you know how it is.  How is everything going for you on the force?"  Be polite.  It wasn't so hard as all that.  Kevin was only doing his best.  It was good that he felt like one of the family, Eric would have liked that.  Eric had liked and respected Kevin.

"It's good, you know, really good.  I really feel like I'm fitting in."  

(Don't breathe through your nose, Simon thought.  If you breathe through your nose you'll definitely throw up.)  "I'm sorry, what did you ask?"

"How's school?" Kevin repeated.  "Simon, are you all right?"  His fingers closed around Simon's wrist, and Simon just managed not to pull away.  

"Sorry, Kev.  I'm just really tired.  School's fine."

"Yeah," Kevin said doubtfully.  "Well, get some sleep, kid, we'll talk later."

"Right."  Grateful, Simon stood up, shouldering his bag again.  "Night, Kevin."  Seven steps to the couch, maybe eight.  He'd gotten three when he realized he wasn't going to make it.  He turned to say something to Kevin, not help, exactly, but pretty close, when his legs went out from under him.  The counter slowed his fall, a little, and he never felt the floor come up to hit him.


	3. Pressure

Pressure

_(Story by Ishafel, copyright 10/31/02.  I bear no responsibility for the characters, luckily)_

_Matters of the Heart_

Pressure 

Kevin, saying anxiously, "Simon wake up," while the room revolved slowly around him.  

He shut his eyes again quickly.  "I'm alright, really, I just must have tripped or something, I don't know."

"Was it your ankle?"  Kevin sounded younger than Simon had ever heard him, fear putting an edge on his voice.  "Did you twist an ankle or something?"

"Yeah, that must have been it," he said gratefully.  Surely honesty could be taken too far?  Was it worse to lie, or to worry his family?  Kevin pulled him to his feet, and once he was up, he felt much better.  "Could I have something to drink?" he asked, and Kevin brought him some water.  "Kev," he began, after he had taken a sip.  "I know I haven't been as friendly as I should have, but I wanted to tell you, I'm really glad that you're going to marry Lucy.  I'm glad to have you as a brother."

Kevin's face lit up, making Simon feel shittier than ever.  "Thanks, Simon!  I know you guys are all going through a really hard time, but it's been hard to keep from mentioning the engagement.  I kind of feel left out sometimes, you know?"

"Sure," Simon answered, even though he didn't.  Surely his dad would approve a white lie, meant to make Kevin feel more welcome?

"But as your older brother, Simon, I can't let this go.  You should see a doctor, just in case."

"I know," Simon sighed.  "I just hate to worry Mom."  Though his words were the absolute truth, he still felt guilty.  Too bad his conscience hadn't been this sensitive a few weeks ago.

"Oh," Kevin sounded surprised.  "No need to drag Mom into this.  I can take you tomorrow to get a checkup, no problem."

"Great."  Simon hated doctors, but he knew he was getting off easy.  Certainly easier than he deserved.

But in the end there was nothing wrong with him anyway, and Hank slapped him the back and handed him some vitamins.  "Healthy as a horse, son!" he said cheerfully.  "Heart's ticking like a clock."

"Great," Simon answered unhappily.  Absurd to be sorry that there was nothing physically wrong with him, of course, but he would gladly have given up his healthy heart to have his father back.  Being sick would have been divine justice, might have been a sign that his father had forgiven him.  Being so healthy seemed almost insulting. 

Hank, misinterpreting his gloominess, said, "Look, Simon, you passed out because you hadn't eaten.  Take care of yourself, okay?  Do it for your mother's sake if not for your own."

In the car, Kevin tactfully mentioned that maybe grief counseling could be an option.  "I know it's not your family's thing, Simon, but I went after my dad died and it really helped me to have someone impartial to talk to."  
  
"I'll think about it," Simon promised, but he knew that it would be useless.  There was nothing wrong with him he hadn't brought on himself, that wasn't the result of his own carelessness.  There was no one he could imagine wanting to talk to, except perhaps his dad.  Something he supposed he should have thought about before he'd opened his mouth, all those weeks ago.

Later he sat in the sun at the park, doing his homework while the twins played on the swings.  It was bright and warm out, but Simon was still cold.  He turned his face to the light, but a shadow blocked out the sun.  "I've been wanting to talk to you," she said.  "You're a hard man to find, Simon Camden."

Simon moved over to make room on the bench for her.  "I thought you didn't want to see me ever again?" he asked, startled.  She looked good, Claire, so good that it was hard to imagine a month ago she'd been close to breaking, that a month ago she'd given birth prematurely in a telephone booth and discarded her baby like so much trash.  Hard to imagine that choosing college over the child's life had not gotten her punished, when a few careless words had been enough to destroy Simon's family.

"Yeah," Claire said.  "But I realized I'd never thanked you, Simon, and I'd never told you how sorry I was about your dad.  He seemed like a decent guy, you know?  I bet he was hard to live with, though."

"Not at all," Simon answered, letting his displeasure show, and Claire flinched a little.  

"Well, I am.  Sorry, I mean." She sounded a little apprehensive now.  No doubt she was waiting for Simon to rip her head off, but he knew better than that now.  She was only trying to help, Claire, and she was a nice girl, and she deserved to be treated kindly.

"I know you are, Claire.  Sorry, I mean.  How're you doing?"

"Physically or mentally, you mean?"

Simon bit back the words the old Simon would have said, that he could see Claire was doing fine physically, that if anything she looked better than ever.  "Both, I guess."  Poor Claire.  No more cleavage.  But it was wrong of him to think of her that way.  Claire was a person, and she deserved his respect.  He was having an awfully hard time giving it to her.  But he had helped Claire, and he could always be proud of that.  His father could be proud of that.  Because of him, Claire would have her shot at an Ivy League college and an MBA.  And her baby would have to fight its way through the foster care system, swimming uphill the whole way.  Maybe someday it would realize that its mother had never wanted it.  Why was it that everything he touched turned to shit.

"I'm okay," Claire was saying.  "You know?  At first I wasn't, but I think that now I am.  And I'll never forget what you did for me, Simon.  Not a lot of guys would have done something like that.  I know I'm not pretty or popular, but I'm a person, too.  You were there for me at a really, really bad time in my life."  When she bent her head to kiss him, Simon flinched.  But her mouth was cool and dry and she tasted like strawberry lip gloss and pushed against him with so much passion that he remembered why she'd ended up where she was.

"I have to go, Claire," he managed.  "Please, my brothers…"

"Of course," Claire sounded okay.  He was glad she wasn't angry.  "Look, Simon—."

"Yeah?"

"Do you maybe wanna go out some time?  I can pay you—my dad's on the Parish Council, I know your family needs the money."  Said all in a rush, as if she knew how he would react.  There was really only one thing he could say, and he said it.  Made his excuses, shoved his books back into the bag, scooped up the twins and headed back to the car.  Just another wonderful day in the life of Simon Camden.  How had his father survived it as long as he had?

Behind the wheel of the car at last, Simon was horrified to feel tears start.  He had not been able to cry for his father, but he was crying for poor dumb, easy Claire, who had never wanted anything more than to be loved.  Ignoring the Sam and David's soft questions he folded his arms over the steering wheel and cried so hard that his eyes hurt.    


End file.
